


carry our bodies (safe to shore)

by melthedestroyer



Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Blow Jobs, Eliot Waugh's Canonically Huge Dick, Fix-It, Hand Jobs, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Suicide, M/M, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater's Oral Fixation, Tenderness, not season 5 compliant
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-09
Updated: 2021-02-07
Packaged: 2021-03-01 19:54:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 10,279
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23552626
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/melthedestroyer/pseuds/melthedestroyer
Summary: It’s a quiet night, and Quentin wakes to Eliot chainsmoking on the balcony.Hot chocolate is made, and Eliot gets a chance to process some emotions.[UPDATE: Now with an epilogue! - Tags have been updated to reflect it]
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Comments: 38
Kudos: 274





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is a story in which Quentin was dead, and now he isn't. His inner narration reflects on that a little, as well as on his emotional state leading up to his death in 4x13, and while it's only touched on, I wanted to give a warning and a tag for it just in case. This is mostly a story where two sad, healing boys are soft at each other for three thousand words.
> 
> This thing manifested itself in, like, a day and a half while studiously avoiding two term papers during Quarantine Hell. While I've had several WIPs sitting in my docs for this show since I started watching over a year ago, I wanted to put this little guy up here in honor of the show ending last week, since the story didn't seem to want to be much else beyond what it is.
> 
> A special thank you [patrolka](https://archiveofourown.org/users/patrokla/pseuds/patrokla) for the short-notice beta!
> 
> Title and epigraphs are from "Little Talks" by Of Monsters and Men, because...why not.

_There’s an old voice in my head that’s holding me back.  
_ _Well tell her that I’ve missed our little talks._

It’s a quiet night, and Quentin wakes to Eliot chainsmoking on the balcony.

They’re renting an AirBnB in Long Island City, paid for by some arrangement between Fogg and the Library, while everything gets sorted with everyone, dealing with the fact that Marina’s condo didn’t belong to them and the fact that they all had their lives taken away for a few months when some of their stuff was still _at Brakebills_ , and Julia was working out some goddess stuff and some Penny stuff and Kady and Alice were working out the Library and Margo was trying to keep the path to Fillory open, and

Anyway, it was easier to just get away from it for a little while. If his friends need help, Quentin is a text away, but what his friends want from him most of all is to figure out this whole...being alive thing.

After not. Being that.

And Eliot, of course, doing his own version of it with him.

It's better this way, to at least have concrete evidence that someone else is having just as much trouble adjusting to inhabiting a living body as he is. And it's nice, in a way that it hadn’t ever been before, that Eliot and he can just exist in the same space, without anything but themselves hanging over them. Like the mosaic, but the puzzle is their own lives, their own bodies and selves. 

An interminable quest, with nothing but time to solve it.

It’s 3 AM when Quentin finds that Eliot has left their bed mostly cold, and despite how exhausted he is, he’s worried enough to at least shuffle out into the living room to look for him. 

The light is off on the balcony, but Eliot is a hunched, dark silhouette against the lights of Manhattan on the other side of the East River. It’s almost ominous-looking, and Quentin has a brief moment of--no. No, the Monster didn’t bother with nicotine when there was tequila and cocaine to be had, and it certainly didn’t care about things like views, or sitting quietly outside when it could be with Quentin.

Eliot had cut his hair, once Quentin was alive again. It had been hopelessly straggly the first day he’d been back, but now Quentin can see the shape of it even in the dark, curls artlessly fluffing on top of his head. He feels a bit creepy, staring in his pajama pants from inside looking out, but Eliot lights another cigarette, and in the dim orange-red glow cupped in his palm, Quentin notices that Eliot is sitting out there in nothing but boxers and an undershirt, without even a robe or socks to keep out the mild chill of a mid-spring night.

He makes up his mind then, and pops a hot chocolate pod into the host-provided Keurig coffeemaker, lets it pour, and then runs another one. Eliot is still on the same cigarette by the time Quentin comes up to knock softly on the slider, two full mugs balanced in his hands and a couch throw blanket around his shoulders. Eliot starts, but reaches back to nudge the slider open when he sees him. 

“Hey,” Quentin begins softly, and he can see Eliot tense about the shoulders where he's sprawled over a deck chair. He’s pretty sure he knows the conversation Eliot thinks they’re about to have-- _why are you up, have you slept at all_. The fun perk of living with depression for over ten years is knowing how trapped those questions can make you feel. “Trade you one of these for a light,” is what he says instead, indicating the mugs.

“Whatcha got?” is the response, surprisingly light for his apparent mood, but he doesn’t look at Quentin, instead busying himself with tapping out a cigarette for him. 

“Hot chocolate. There were a few pods on the coffee spinner.”

Eliot accepts the trade, hands him the cigarette in exchange for the mug, which he sets down on the little glass table next to the ashtray.

Quentin puts it between his lips and starts casting about for a lighter (habit) before Eliot leans over, holding his hand out. He does a tiny, beautiful little one-handed tut, and produces a small flame out of the tip of his thumb, and lights it for him. Quentin feels, for a moment, a spark of not just the lust that’s wrapped up in all his complex feelings about their relationship, but the little schoolboy crush he’d felt his first year of Brakebills, borne from the wonder that in a school chock full of gorgeous, talented people, this hot, popular guy with a queen bee best friend wanted to hang out with him.

The feeling is quelled, just a little, when he looks at the box and realizes that what he's just put in his mouth are Merit Menthols.

" _Merits_? I pegged you for a menthols guy, but _Merits_?"

It surprises a quiet laugh out of Eliot that, finally, makes his shoulders settle. He takes a sip from his mug. "Leave me alone, I wanted my comfort smokes."

"Comfort smokes," Quentin echoes dubiously.

"They're what my mom had when I was like fourteen and started stealing them out of her purse. I didn't think you had such strong opinions about this."

"Blame Julia."

Eliot chuckles and leaves Quentin to smoke his awful acrid breath mint while he alternates between the cocoa and his own.

It’s not until a few moments of quiet that Quentin realizes Eliot is looking at him. It’s a little dark to tell his expression, but he feels a little embarrassed suddenly.

“What?”

“No, it’s-- I just. I didn’t even know you smoked.”

Quentin shrugs with one shoulder. “I’d quit right before Brakebills. And then it’s...It’s not like Fillory has bodegas, y’know? I picked it back up when magic was gone and I needed to do something with my hands.”

“It’s funny,” Eliot says, still in that same soft, pensive tone. “We’ve known each other for, what, three years? And you still surprise me.”

Quentin feels himself blushing. It feels like a compliment, coming from Eliot, even though the revelation they just had is that Quentin has a bad habit that he’s also a total elitist hipster about. “I mean, most of it was...we had other stuff to do.”

“I know,” Eliot says, sounding a little glum about it. He stubs his cigarette out, folds a knee up to his chest, and looks out onto the water with his mug held close in both palms.

The juxtaposition hits Quentin again, of the aloof dandy he hopelessly crushed on against the man sitting next to him, tired and stripped down and still so strikingly beautiful it makes Quentin’s mouth go dry sometimes. The shadows sharpen his cheekbones, his chin, the lean lines of muscle in his arms, cutting a dramatic look as always; but he can also see the pale line of shin dusted with dark hair, his bare feet, the soft inner thigh of his untucked leg, sprawled languidly outward to brace against the railing. It’s intimate, and the fact that Quentin knows but doesn’t quite remember what it was to be invited into this is heartbreaking sometimes. To be left with nothing but the emotional hangover of five decades’ worth of close partnership and _snippets_...it still aches in his bones, some days.

Their relationship is different than it was in the weeks after remembering the mosaic. And though this is probably the first time since then they’d been able to spend time together, it seems like forever ago--there had been so much going on, with the keys, and then Blackspire, and then he’d been _Brian_ , and then the Monster, and then Quentin had been _dead_ until, like, a week ago.

When Eliot had held him cradled in his arms on the floor of the Library, and had kissed him, in front of everyone, before tucking Quentin’s head under his chin, and then just sat there, rocking him as Quentin tried to remember how lungs were supposed to work. 

They’d been inseparable since then, and even now in their little expenses-paid staycation apartment, they sleep in the same bed.

They just haven’t talked about any of it. Eliot hasn’t kissed him since that day, but in the mornings when insomnia hasn’t gotten to either of them, they’ll wake pressed together somehow, spooning or some configuration of tangled limbs

“Hey,” Quentin says, stubbing out his cigarette and bringing the blanket closer around his shoulders. “You, um, you don’t have to talk about it, but. I mean, I’m up. And I wanna help, if. If I can.”

“You did help,” Eliot says, so quiet that he sounds miles away. “You brought me hot chocolate and dragged me for my cigarette preferences.”

“Well, yeah, but. You know.”

“I’m serious, Q, you’re. You _are_ helping. You...remind me that I’m still a human being, and that you’re still here.”

“Course I’m still here,” Quentin says, without quite thinking about _exactly_ what Eliot could be implying.

He sees it though, the reflexive hurt of it, in the hitch of Eliot’s shoulders after. “Sometimes I think I dreamt you up,” he whispers, like he wishes he weren’t saying it. “I wake up thinking that you’re still. Or that _I’m_ still…”

“Oh, God, hey,” Quentin says, leaning over the table to place his hand on Eliot’s arm. The skin is cold - he can feel goosebumps under his palm. “You saved me, remember? Margo got you out and then you got _me_ out.”

“It’s like I’m still mourning you, some days,” Eliot says into his mug. “You just--I woke up and you weren’t _there_ , you m-made sure I was safe and then were just _dead_ , and I spent so much time literally _inside my head_ that sometimes it makes more sense that I just made you up again instead of getting you back.” He looks up from his mug, out at the water again, and it’s only with the lights of a passing ambulance that Quentin can see how wet his eyes are. The tear tracks on his cheeks. “I mean, obviously it’s crazy,” Eliot is saying, dismissive even as his breath catches, but Quentin is already getting up and moving toward him. “But I just--”

It’s not the best position, to be sure, but Quentin is beyond caring. He’s in front of Eliot’s chair, in his space, gently extricating the mug from shaking hands to rest on the table before he pulls Eliot into his arms. He’s sort of awkwardly crouched, knees propped on the deck chair between Eliot’s legs, but Eliot has a vicegrip around his waist, face smushed into his chest. He’s vibrating, a coiled spring so taut with built-up tension that Quentin can’t even feel him breathing.

He knows this feeling. Intimately. The moment you’re begging the dam not to break.

“I’m here,” Quentin reminds him softly, resting his cheek on Eliot’s head. “Hey, I’m right here.” _Let go_ , he thinks at him. He smooths his palm over the line of Eliot’s spine, guilt mixing with the fierce protective instinct he’d developed for this man, somewhere, he doesn’t know when. He hadn’t meant to die, not really, but he knows now that that’s not quite the same as not trying very hard to stay alive.

He’d just been so _tired_ at the end.

“We’re safe now,” he says, instead of making his excuses to a man who had fought, probably as hard as Quentin himself had for him in the months preceding, to bring him back.

Eliot makes a noise, a sharp exhale and a gasp. And then another. And another. He’s still tightly wound, only breathing in these short, sharp intermittent bursts, like it all wants to come bursting out of him and he keeps sucking it back in. It breaks Quentin’s fucking heart. 

“Eliot, _breathe_ ,” he whispers. “I promise, I’m right here, I’m not going anywhere, just breathe.”

That one does it. Muffled into Quentin’s chest, Eliot starts sobbing, his hands clutching the back of Quentin’s sleep shirt. It’s quiet, but he’s finally letting go--and Quentin can’t help but think of something he’s been trying not to, his own little funeral, and the pale, exhausted man being held up by Margo, how tenderly he’d held that peach before giving it to the fire. If Quentin has his timeline right, he was only dead for about a month after that.

Of course Eliot still feels like he’s mourning him. He’d probably never let himself grieve in the first place. It didn’t matter that they’d made it better, that Quentin wasn’t dead anymore. Just because you put a fire out doesn’t mean there aren’t still burns to heal. Quentin had still felt the aftershocks of Alice’s death even after her shade was returned, and still missed Eliot so much it hurt after he’d come through in the park to call the Monster’s bluff.

So Quentin just holds him as he cries it out, pressing his face to the top of his head and making nonsense comforting noises, rubbing his back and stroking his hair.

“Fuck, sorry,” Eliot croaks after he’s quieted down, pulling away to inspect the wet blob on Quentin’s shirt. “I don’t know where that came from.” He sniffles, and Quentin summons a tissue from the box in the kitchen, appearing in his palm with a flick of his wrist. It’s a party trick, like Eliot’s lighter, but it does the job. Eliot leans back and blows his nose.

“You should come back to bed,” Quentin suggests, backing away enough to give him space to get up. Insomnia or no, Eliot just had the kind of crying jag that only a nap can follow after. “We can chainsmoke and get existential tomorrow.”

“That’s my line,” Eliot grumbles, wadding the tissue up. “Gimme a minute?” 

Quentin isn’t sure what possesses him to do it, but he takes the blanket from around his own shoulders and drapes it over Eliot’s, tucking it snug around him. And before he can overthink it, he kisses Eliot's forehead. 

It's something Eliot would do for him, anyway. Nothing weird about it.

"Take your minute," Quentin says, getting up and grabbing his mug. "Just come to bed after, okay?"

Eliot gives him a look, the same searching one from before. "Yeah. Okay."

Quentin doesn't really want to leave him out there, but he nods and heads back inside and to the bedroom. He finishes his cocoa whole scrolling through his phone, sitting up against the headboard, and Eliot is shuffling in before he's even put the mug aside. It’s dark except for the streetlights in the window, but Quentin can see he still has the blanket over his shoulders.

Quentin expects that'll be it, that Eliot will burrow in and they'll wake up spooning again tomorrow, but instead Eliot crawls right up to him.

"Hey."

Before he knows what's happening, Eliot kisses him - brief and tentative, and Quentin can tell through the haze of his own surprise that he immediately regrets it.

"Sorry," Eliot's saying, pulling away. "I just. I can go on the couch--"

Quentin cuts off what he’s sure will be a remarkable feat of backpedaling with a kiss of his own, firm and lingering, staying just long enough that he can feel Eliot's flight instinct fade. “Stay,” he says against Eliot’s lips.

“Q, I--” Eliot whispers, and he still sounds so scared that even through his own exhaustion Quentin's heart breaks a little again. It’s 3 AM and he’s already cried himself out, why is he doing this to himself? 

“Shh,” Quentin says, kissing him softly again. “We can talk tomorrow.”

“Okay,” Eliot says on an exhale, but he doesn’t look entirely relieved. There’s doubt pinching at his eyebrows now, and Quentin won’t have that.

“We can cuddle this bitch out in the meantime though, so long as you try to actually sleep.” He looks up at Eliot, fully using what Julia and James used to refer to as his Puppydog Eyes. Somewhere deep in his subconscious, where he keeps the mosaic, he thinks he’s probably weaponized them against Eliot before.

And it works, because Eliot chuckles, visibly softening. “Fine,” he capitulates, and scoots down, settling into bed. Quentin insinuates himself down into Eliot’s space, rolling on his side to tuck his face into Eliot’s neck.

He feels, as he closes his eyes, the lightest, most tentative brush of fingers over his hair. To get his point across even further, Quentin wraps an arm around Eliot’s waist and throws his leg over his thighs.

Eliot seems frozen for a second, and Quentin wonders for a second if he’s miscalculated before he feels Eliot practically melt into it, rolling onto his back to hold Quentin with both arms, keeping him nestled against his chest.

There’s a small pause, just a few heartbeats before Quentin feels Eliot’s breathing pick up, like he’s starting to worry again.

“El, go to sleep,” he murmurs, already feeling himself starting to drop off in the safety of their own little shared space, in the soft dark of this temporary bedroom. “I’m right here. Promise.”

It’s the easiest thing to ask of Eliot, to kiss him, and to stay with him, and maybe it’s a little selfish. He doesn’t really know if he can be _anyone’s_ boyfriend right now, let alone navigate the absolute clusterfuck of complication that is their past, but he’d just spent several minutes just holding Eliot while he finally let himself cry for a death that hadn’t even stuck, and Eliot wants to kiss him, and Quentin wants Eliot to kiss him, and for now, that all feels right, somehow.

They can work out the rest later. All they have is time.

_The stairs creak as I sleep, it’s keeping me awake.  
_ _It’s the house telling you to close your eyes._

  
  
  



	2. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The boys wake up. Eliot shows his hand.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter 1 was supposed to be where I left them, but here we are, with an epilogue twice the length of the original. I have a sneaky feeling this won't be the last of this storyline, now, but it might become more a series of one shots than a continuous multichapter narrative. 
> 
> I have adjusted the tags on this fic to reflect the content of this chapter.
> 
> Thank you to [schifaroo](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/schifaroo=) for the beta and cheering, and as always to [this one](https://www.archiveofourown.org/users/oneprotagonistshort) for everything else.
> 
> Warnings for brief discussion of Eliot's axe wound and other canon-typical leftover grief stuff, but this is 97% just a super soft sex scene.

_ Soon it will all be over,  
and buried with our pasts _

Quentin wakes to sunlight streaming in through the windows in shafts, dust motes floating in and out of view. He’s warm where the light falls, comfortably so, like he’s just had a solid nap on the couch by the window at the Cottage. 

He feels rested. 

He’s laying on his back, tucked under an obscenely comfortable, puffy duvet, and it takes him a moment to realize weight on him isn’t just slowly retreating sleep, but something else. His eyes flick down, and he gets a profound sense of deja vu—a pale arm, warm and still, slung over his hips. A limp hand curled on the bedding, wearing a silver ring with a white stone.

With a small pang, he half expects Alice to be standing at the foot of the bed, speechless, quietly furious, and unfortunately unsurprised. All that’s missing is Margo at Eliot’s back, his foot tucked between her ankles. 

They are not those people anymore, not really, but the echos are striking. Quentin hadn’t even properly broken up with Alice upon returning to the world of the living. It was just...sort of assumed—which is its own kind of tragedy. 

At least they’re wearing clothes this time. And Quentin can remember the night before in more than just flashes. Eliot on the balcony, smoking and shaking and trying to reorder his brain. Eliot climbing into bed, kissing him, nakedly terrified in a way Quentin cannot remember seeing him. 

Quentin would like to kiss him again, he thinks. To get closer to the warmth radiating from somewhere to the right of him. He turns his head, expecting to burrow into Eliot’s chest until he wakes up, but Eliot’s eyes are open.

Looking at him.

Eliot glances sideways, caught out, ears turning pink.

This shy Eliot is a new one, and Quentin wonders if it’s because Eliot essentially showed his whole hand last night, without even having to say much at all.

Being known, in the mortifying-ordeal sort of way, is something that even the Quentin of three years ago could see Eliot desperately wanted, but was petrified of. 

It’d be sweet, if it didn’t also make Quentin feel so sad.

“Morning,” Quentin says, lips quirking up in a smile. One that says,  _ caught you _ , but with only the gentlest amount of teasing. He shifts to lay on his side, which makes Eliot take his arm away. 

“Hey,” Eliot says, voice still rough with sleep. He can’t have been up for very long.

Quentin scoots a little closer until their knees touch.

“You can, you know,” he says, softly, trying not to spook him. 

“Can what?” Eliot asks, just as soft.

Quentin blindly reaches forward under the blankets, and finds Eliot’s wrist. He brushes his fingertips along the knob of bone there. “You know. Whatever it is you’re, like, thirty seconds away from psyching yourself out of doing.”

Eliot purses his lips and swallows.

_ Come on _ , Quentin thinks, meeting Eliot’s eyes, so close he can see the flecks of green in his irises.  _ I’m right here _ . 

“But I’m not gonna do it for you,” Quentin says. He’s owed this, he thinks. After the throne room. After the Monster. After dying. 

And Eliot is owed the opportunity to finally open his damn mouth and ask for it.

Eliot closes his eyes, breathes out slowly through his nose. Quentin, with a flash of disappointment and irritation, thinks  _ well, maybe that was too much too soon _ , before Eliot’s hand comes up to wrap around the nape of Quentin’s neck, long fingers buried in his hair. Even as Eliot’s thumb brushes over his skin to rest in front of his ear, Quentin can see his eyebrows furrow. It almost reads as indecision to Quentin before he realizes what it actually is, just in time to be kissed, warmly, carefully, but with conviction. That face wasn’t Eliot waffling at all, but screwing his courage to the sticking place.

Relief mixing with pride and something else too complicated to name, Quentin melts into it with a sigh, and lets his eyes slip shut. 

The initial kiss is short, just a taste, and even though it breaks after only a second, Eliot remains close; his shaky exhales soft on Quentin’s lips.

Quentin lifts his hand to Eliot’s side, palm flat over the material of his sleep tank, fingers resting in the divots of his ribs. He can feel, under the shirt and skin and bone, just how hard and fast Eliot’s heart is beating.

A barely-there gasp from Eliot, and then he dives back in.

Whatever shyness he’d been battling earlier seems to have dissolved. Eliot kisses him hot, and open, fingers digging into Quentin’s scalp in a way that makes him feel absolutely boneless. Quentin slides his palm over Eliot’s side to rest at his back and pulls him closer, so they’re chest to chest. Eliot’s heart is still beating wildly, and Quentin runs his knuckles soothingly over his spine in hopes of calming it. 

By the time he comes up for air, Eliot no longer looks so terrified, but their faces are too close together for Quentin to tell much else. 

It occurs to Quentin that Eliot has been really fucking brave in the past twelve hours. And...Quentin doesn’t quite have his head on straight yet, but he can rest their foreheads together and press a soft kiss of his own at the corner of Eliot’s mouth. To show his thanks.

At that angle, the cold tip of Eliot’s nose presses gently against Quentin’s cheek when they kiss, which weirdly makes him want to cry. It’s so—Quentin isn’t kissing just anybody, or even the memory of Eliot that lived in his head when they were apart. 

It’s  _ Eliot _ , in Eliot’s body, with all its beauty and oddities, with his cleft chin and strong nose, eyes a bright glassy hazel, with...with something  _ behind _ them, that isn’t—that’s  _ human _ . The fucking—

Unbidden, Quentin lifts his hand to Eliot’s face, tracing with careful fingertips the constellation of tiny, barely-there birthmarks, one, two, three, over his left eyebrow. They brush lower, over his high, aristocratic cheekbone, finding two more little dark brown marks, on the side of his nose, and on his cheek, right where it wouldn’t so much dimple as crease if he smiled, the whole shape of his face changing with it, eyes crinkling at the corners.

Quentin’s fingers travel over Eliot’s three days’ worth of stubble, dark on his pale skin, and where it continues under his jaw, to taper off slowly at his neck. And down, where Quentin is still too close to see but can feel—the sharp Adam’s apple, the delicate dip of his collarbone, the beginnings of soft chest hair…

“Oh fuck, I  _ missed you _ ,” Quentin breathes. “I fucking— _ God _ , Eliot. I missed you  _ so  _ much...”

Eliot pulls him in, and Quentin thinks it’s for another kiss, but instead he gets tucked securely under Eliot’s chin, and squeezed around the waist. 

“I’m sorry,” Eliot murmurs. Quentin can feel Eliot bury his face in his hair, and his words become muffled. “I missed you, too.”

Quentin’s face is conveniently smushed into Eliot’s neck, so he takes the opportunity to nuzzle into the crook of his shoulder and close his eyes, breathing him in. Eliot is still softly sleep-warm, with a stale, sweaty, morning-ish smell to his skin. Not bad, really, just like a night spent under blankets. Quentin just wants to bury himself in it. 

Eliot's long fingers are stroking his hair, scratching his scalp, giving Quentin the best kind of goosebumps.

"Gonna make me fall back asleep," Quentin says into Eliot's neck, only barely a complaint.

"Still tired?" Eliot asks, with a gentleness and genuine concern that makes his eyes sting.

"Not really," Quentin says, tucking his hand under the hem of Eliot's sleep shirt, to get at the smooth skin there, run his nails over the small of his back. "Just comfortable."

Eliot hums and presses his lips to Quentin's hairline. "Me too."

"You sleep okay? After…"

"Yeah," Eliot sighs. "I was kinda tapped out."

"Hey…" Quentin says, switching from scratching to smoothing his palm over Eliot's back. "You can, like...tell me about this shit. Or just. I'm here, is what I mean."

"Thank you," Eliot says, softly. "I can't promise I'll always be the most forthcoming? Old habits. But...same. I'm here, too."

Reluctantly, Quentin untucks himself from Eliot's neck and lifts his head. Eliot deserves to know where he's at. "So...everything’s fucked? Right now? And...we don't have to talk about it yet. But...thank you for...letting me help. And doing what you did last night. I...want you to keep kissing me. If—if you want."

Eliot huffs out something that's almost like a laugh and presses their lips together again. "Yes," he says, an amused, incredulous lilt to his voice. He holds Quentin’s face in his hands and kisses his cheek, "I do," his nose, "in fact," between his eyes, "want."

It's Quentin's turn to be shy now. Having coaxed Eliot out of whatever shell he was hiding in and given him permission, Quentin is now the entire focus of Eliot's affection. Which is...a lot. He just...has a lot of it to give. 

"Oh," Quentin breathes. "Good."

There's no words for a while after that. Just the two of them, pressed together, in the safe cocoon of the duvet, warming under the sunlight and each other's mouths. Eventually, Quentin’s shirt is rucked up to his chest from Eliot's hands, and even Eliot’s thumb brushing his hipbone makes him shiver. And then Eliot’s fingers are in his hair again, and they tighten, and Quentin—

gasps, helplessly, and moans as he feels his spine just,  _ liquify _ . 

Eliot lets go, pulls away, half a whispered apology on his lips, and Quentin grabs his arm to keep him there. He opens his eyes, feeling hazy, touch-drunk, hungry.

“Don’t stop?” he asks, voice cracking over it.

“Fuck,” Eliot breathes, threading his fingers through Quentin’s hair again, eyes wide. He rests their foreheads together, and bumps noses with him gently, eyes fluttering shut. “Okay.” He swallows. “But you—tell me. If anything’s...too much. Yeah?”

“Yeah,” Quentin agrees, letting his hand drop now that Eliot isn’t going anywhere. Pointedly, he runs his palm up from Eliot’s hip to his ribs, pushing the hem of his shirt up with it. Eliot shivers. “Same to you. But.” He kisses Eliot, pointed, to clear his head a little. “Just saying? If you want it...I probably do too. You don’t…” he lets his palm travel back down to rest at Eliot’s hip again, “have to—treat me like I’m gonna break, okay?”

Eliot brushes Quentin’s hair back and kisses his eyebrow. “Alright. It’s just...You deserve to…” 

Quentin can practically feel him cast about for the right way to phrase it, and realizes in the silence that follows that Eliot  _ wants _ to be gentle with him. Eliot’s been cupping the back of his head like it’s a precious thing, touching him softly and kissing him with extreme care, this whole time. 

Because he thinks Quentin deserves that.

It makes Quentin’s eyes sting, a little. 

“Okay,” Quentin says, letting Eliot off the hook for trying to verbalize something that’s...probably going to cost him a lot to say, right now. “Okay. But like...just saying, you...kind of also deserve to have what you want.”

Something complicated, and not super readable, happens over Eliot’s face. And then he nods, sets his jaw, and promptly rolls them over so that Quentin is on his back, and Eliot is  _ kissing  _ him, in an all-consuming sort of way. The warmth and weight of Eliot’s body blankets him, making him feel…

Safe. Quentin feels  _ safe _ , like this. When the fuck was the last time…

Quentin wraps his arm around Eliot’s back and buries his other hand in his curls, which are already a mess, because Eliot always wakes up with the most insane bedhead. They’re thick, and soft, and Quentin combs his fingers through them and down to the nape of his neck, just enjoying the feel of it. His hair is shorter than it’s been for a while, but there’s still that tiny cowlick behind his ear, that sticks straight out and curls upward. Barely noticeable, except that Eliot would always fuss like hell over it when getting ready in the morning at Brakebills, trying to get it to lay flat. Quentin toys with it, gently petting and twirling it with a fingertip, and feels Eliot shiver again.

He wraps his legs around Eliot’s waist, thinking that...Eliot deserves to feel like he’s making Quentin feel right now. Safe, and wanted.

Eliot makes a small noise and changes tracks, leaving Quentin’s mouth to kiss a trail down his throat. He doesn’t bite, like Quentin is half expecting him to, just lingers, mouth hot and stubble gently scratchy on Quentin’s skin, as he makes his slow way from the soft place under his ear to the crook of his neck, and to his collarbone.

Quentin...kind of normally  _ likes _ to be nibbled at, but this slow, aching progression is something else. Eliot’s tongue laves at the line of bone, tasting, and Quentin moans. The attention Eliot pays is painstaking, almost torturous, and—Jesus fuck it’s just his  _ neck _ , for god’s sake.

Quentin lets his legs fall and pushes a little at Eliot’s shoulders. “Hold on,” he gasps, and Eliot pulls back, frowning, curious, and sits back on his heels.

He opens his mouth to ask a question, but Quentin just scrambles out of his sleep shirt, getting half-stuck like he always does when he’s in a rush, and Eliot laughs and helps him the rest of the way. 

Before he gets any ideas, Quentin takes Eliot by the neck and yanks him down with him as he falls back onto the pillows.

“Okay, continue,” he says, breathless, and Eliot presses his smiling mouth to his sternum. 

“Yes, sir, right away, sir” he murmurs into Quentin’s skin, and Quentin snorts and rolls his eyes. 

Eliot continues with his slow, methodical exploration of Quentin’s body, dragging his mouth over his chest, ribs, stomach, his shoulder. It’s almost meditative, and soon Quentin is breathing deep and slow, his nerves humming, face and chest flushed. He’s fucking  _ ridiculously _ hard under his sweatpants, but Eliot is kneeling and giving him nothing to press up against, so when Eliot finds someplace  _ really _ good, all Quentin can do is gasp and buck his hips or arch his back, helpless. 

Like, Jesus, his pants aren’t even  _ off _ yet, and Quentin’s whole body is aching with want, his skin buzzling and hair-trigger sensitive.

“Fuck, Eliot,  _ please _ ,” he groans after what feels like an eternity, winding his fingers in Eliot’s hair again. “You don’t—have to keep—” 

What he means is, Eliot doesn’t have to work so hard to get Quentin to warm up to the idea of—whatever it is they’re doing. That ship sailed  _ yesterday _ , fucking  _ years ago _ , even, and Quentin is not just on board the ship, he’s fucking steering it. But the connection between his brain and his mouth is a little fuzzy at the moment, and he also knows that acknowledging some of the...deeper implications of all this would maybe kill the mood.

Eliot leans on one elbow and cradles Quentin’s wrist with his free hand, holding his arm up to receive the same attention he’s been giving the rest of him. 

“You told me,” Eliot says, voice low, vibrating over the skin of Quentin’s inner elbow, “that I should be able to have what I want.” He lifts his head to look directly at Quentin, and meet his eyes.

His mouth is pink, kiss-swollen, his neck and ears flushed, his eyes—fucking, his pupils are completely blown out, and Quentin realizes that maybe...Eliot isn’t just being a tease.

“This is what I want,” Eliot explains, lifting Quentin’s wrist to press his mouth to it, with the barest hint of teeth.

“ _ Fuck _ ,” Quentin gasps. The skin there is insanely sensitive on a normal day and the kiss sends pleasant shockwaves up his arm, but also—just— _ fuck _ . Eliot just knocked the wind out of him with that.

What Quentin had meant, telling Eliot he deserved to have what he wanted was...well, okay, he was basically telling him that he was a-okay with being fucked into next week. That Eliot should take what he needs from him, and that Quentin will give it. Freely.

He wasn’t expecting  _ this _ . 

“This,” Eliot says, like it explains things, resting Quentin’s arm back onto the pillows. He dips his head down to kiss Quentin once at the crook of his neck, his jaw, his temple, his mouth, his mouth, his mouth. “You.” 

He nuzzles the soft skin behind Quentin’s ear, and Quentin shivers, turning his head to the side to give him access. But Eliot doesn’t keep kissing him, just buries his face there, breathing deep. 

“Me?” Quentin whispers, and it’s—kind of a silly question. But he just wants Eliot to keep talking.

“Mm,” Eliot agrees, muffled. “You, as much of you as I can get.”

Quentin swallows, and he’s already flushed, but he feels himself blushing, cheeks hot. He’s about to tell him to—take his fucking pants off and get to it then, but…

“I thought I wouldn’t...get to? Again?" Eliot continues, voice small.

It only occurs to Quentin now, lost in the fog of arousal as he’s been, that Eliot has buried his face in his neck not for, like, sexy reasons, but because he’s...not scared, but something like it.

“Hey,” Quentin whispers, lifting his arms from where they’ve been wrist-up and slack on the sheets to wrap Eliot up again, petting his hair.

“So, I’m just gonna,” Eliot exhales, warm and ticklish on Quentin’s skin, “take my time with you. Because I want to.”

“Okay.” Quentin swallows, blinking back a few tears. He hopes Eliot doesn’t notice. “Fucking tease,” he grumbles, to diffuse the sudden melancholy that’s stalled both of them out.

Eliot laughs, surprised, and nuzzles deeper, kissing his ear. “Oh, I’ll show you  _ teasing _ , Coldwater.”

“God,  _ please _ don’t,” Quentin groans, half laughing and half, just, wildly turned on by the thought. Of Eliot making him wait. “Five more minutes of this and I might just come in my pants.”

“Oh?” Eliot lifts his head, delighted.

“Don’t get any ideas,” he warns. To get his point across, he takes Eliot’s hips and pulls them flush with his own, so Eliot can feel exactly how turned on he is. He gasps, not just at finally getting some friction—which he’d been expecting—but because he can now feel the hard length of Eliot’s cock, radiating heat even through two layers of clothing. Quentin  _ aches _ .

Eliot’s eyes flutter shut, and he breathes in, sharp. 

_ Yeah, see how *you* like it _ , Quentin thinks, feeling sort of—savage, and powerful. That he does, in fact, have this effect on Eliot _.  _ “I mean it,” he says, voice rough with need. “You can draw it out later. Right now, I just—” He wraps his legs around Eliot again, to keep their hips together, and pulls him in for a hungry kiss. 

There’s a marked height difference to be navigated, obviously, and so Eliot doesn’t have to, like, bend in half for this, Quentin stretches out the best he can and tips his head back, so that all Eliot has to do is tilt his head downward a little.

Quentin knows he’s...not the most skilled kisser in the world. He’s been told he makes up for it in enthusiasm, and will happily let the other person take charge once he’s gotten his point across. Which, Eliot’s always been great at. Taking charge. So, Quentin gives himself over once Eliot gets his bearings and licks into his mouth, moaning low. Quentin lifts his hips to chase Eliot’s, whimpering helplessly at the feeling of Eliot’s fucking— _ huge _ dick grinding against him.

The kiss breaks with them both panting, hot, lips still touching, Eliot's eyelashes brushing his skin. Just...staying as close as they can keep each other. Quentin's whole body is warm and consumed by Eliot above him, and Quentin is practically shaking with want when Eliot finally speaks.

“Alright,” Eliot rasps, and swallows. “Pants off, you.” 

“Jesus,  _ thank you, _ ” Quentin moans. He means it to sound impatient, but it comes out with a bit more genuine gratitude than he’d meant.

Eliot laughs as he sits back, helping Quentin shuck his sweatpants off. “I forgot what a  _ brat _ you can be,” he chuckles, and it’s so fond that Quentin can’t even feel indignant about it. It’s. Kinda true, honestly.

“Yeah, well,” Quentin mumbles, sitting back and throwing his sweatpants away with feeling. “I wouldn’t be if you weren’t such a fucking tease.”

Eliot shakes his head, still laughing, and leans in from where he’s kneeling between Quentin’s legs, running his warm palms over Quentin’s thighs.

_ Oh _ . Quentin’s eyes shut and his head thunks gracelessly against the headboard. It’s just his fucking legs, but it feels  _ incredible _ . Eliot’s palms are hot on his tingling skin, and his thumb pets the tender line of muscle next to his hipbone, and Quentin bites his lip against a whimper as he feels his dick jump. 

“ _ There _ you are,” Eliot whispers, sounding...reverent. Soft, and admiring. As if like...Quentin has satisfied him, in some way.

It sends a shiver up his spine. Makes him feel warm, tingly, loose.

Eliot traces the underside of Quentin’s cock with a single light finger tip. Slow, root to tip.

Quentin feels like he’s going to fucking pass out.

“ _ Eliot _ ,” he sobs, not even caring how needy it sounds now. His whole body is shivering with how much he  _ wants _ . “Pleasefuck _ please _ .”

He feels a warm kiss on his bottom lip, where he’d bitten it. “Please what?” Eliot asks, low in his ear.

“Oh  _ fuck you _ ,” Quentin groans, no anger behind it, just desperation. “Get your  _ goddamn clothes off _ or I am  _ walking out of this apartment _ .”

“Okay, okay,” Eliot laughs, and Quentin opens his eyes to see him grinning wide. He reaches back to pull the shirt over his head, but stops, and looks contemplative. “Did you mean it? What you said before?”

“Which one?”

“About...you know...later.”

And there’s shy Eliot again, eyes averted, voice unsure.

Quentin frowns, opens his mouth, closes it, and swallows down a sudden flash of  _ incredulous _ frustration. Eliot’s got shit, Quentin  _ knows _ he’s got shit, and he should probably be patient with that, but  _ come on _ .

_ This is what got us here _ , Quentin thinks.  _ Because you never fucking believe anyone when they tell you they want you _ . That thought bubbles up from somewhere deep in him, where the mosaic lives, the version of him that turned seventy and was with Eliot for decades. 

Still, the fact that he's asking at all...that's something.

Quentin sighs. “C’mere a sec?” 

Eliot cautiously leans forward again, enough so that Quentin can bury his fingers in Eliot’s hair and kiss him, firmly, pointedly. Quentin still doesn’t quite know what he wants—out of life, out of  _ Eliot _ , even. But he knows he wants this. And they’ll fucking...figure out the rest later.

He pulls back, but continues to hold Eliot’s face, make him look him in the eye. Eliot does, but nervously. “Yes, I did. Promise. I—” Quentin rolls his eyes and lets himself laugh a little. “I do actually know what I want, sometimes. Okay? We’ll…” He loosens the hold on Eliot’s face, but only to brush the curls off his forehead. “I know there’s. A lot. That we need to talk about. But while we’re still trying to figure out how to be human beings again, I’d  _ really _ like it if we could keep doing this.”

Eliot nods, looking contrite. “Okay. Sorry.”

“I also meant it when I said you could drag it out next time. Just by the way,” Quentin adds, letting Eliot’s face go and raising his eyebrows for emphasis. 

Eliot takes a breath, and smiles. “Alright. Just gonna…” he leans back in, kissing Quentin’s neck, “file that away. For later.”

“Good.”

Quentin doesn’t need a whole lot of help to get back to where he was, having only flagged a little during that brief moment of tension. He forgives Eliot for not immediately undressing, and instead decides to feel...pampered. Or something. By the attention that he’s getting. Especially with his legs bare and dick out and mostly back to hard, Eliot has more to work with. Soon, he has Quentin moaning and breathing heavily, hips canting up to—fucking nothing, again.  _ God _ , what a tease.

“Alright,” Quentin pants, while he still has words in his brain. “Clothes. Off.”

“When did  _ you  _ get so bossy?” Eliot laughs, sitting back again to—yes,  _ thank you _ —tug his tanktop off by the back collar in one swift move. He resurfaces with his hair even more mussed, grinning, and Quentin reaches out, just wanting to  _ touch _ , and Eliot, thankfully, leans back in and lets him.

Eliot’s skin is warm, smooth, and Quentin finds more little birthmarks on his lean shoulders and kisses every one that he can reach. And up his  _ extremely _ biteable throat, that Quentin does, in fact, get his teeth on—gentle, tasting salt, not enough to even bruise—to gratifying sighs from Eliot. 

Quentin ducks his head and Eliot gets the hint, rising up on his knees so that Quentin can get at his chest. He nuzzles into impossibly soft chest hair, and holds him around the waist, kissing, just, wherever.

He moves on, eventually, going for Eliot’s shorts next, when he sees it.

A long, gnarled, pink and gray and pearl white scar, just above the waistline. 

It steals his breath away, for a moment, and Quentin reaches out with trembling fingers, to touch the skin just above it. Not wanting...to hurt. 

It’s far more healed than a wound like that should have been, given it’s only been a few weeks. They must have been able to use magic on him, once...Everett was gone. 

Eliot catches on when Quentin stills, and gently threads his fingers through his hair.

“It doesn’t hurt,” he says softly. “They fixed me up pretty good.”

Quentin nods, and buries his face in Eliot’s stomach, arms tight around his hips. 

“I’m alright, baby Q,” Eliot whispers. 

He swallows, as choked up by the sweet endearment as much as by...everything else. 

Though scars are usually a reminder that there had been hurt there, once, this one is also concrete proof that. That Eliot’s alive. That they got the Monster out. 

Quentin presses his lips to the very, very end of it, where it tapers off around Eliot’s hipbone.

Eliot gasps, and Quentin quickly pulls away. “Sorry—I,”

“No,” Eliot says, soothing, petting his hair. “Like I said, it doesn’t hurt. Just. Sensitive, I guess. I haven’t…” He laughs. “I actually haven’t had sex in, like, a  _ really _ long time?”

Quentin pulls back and looks up at him, frowning, and doing the math in his head. 

“Wait, really?”

“Yeah.” Eliot sits back on his heels. “I sucked Idri’s dick once, golem-fucked a rando while also somehow getting my wife pregnant, but that was like... _ over _ two years ago…” He shudders. “And before that it’s like…” He looks up and to the right, thinking. “Wow. Fen, on our wedding night, which I  _ barely _ remember, and then...Uh. Brakebills.”

Quentin blinks, even though it all makes sense. And—Jesus, Brakebills had been...him and Margo. The night before they left for Fillory. 

“So, not your  _ average _ dry spell, certainly, but. You know.” He waves his hand. “Dry for  _ me _ .”

Quentin snorts and pulls him close, kissing him once. “So...how long’s it been since you’ve gotten a blow job?” he asks, feeling a little sly.

Eliot, back in his element, leans against Quentin, pressing their bodies together, and...Fuck, even with the bumpy ride this morning has been, Eliot is still  _ rock _ fucking hard, hot through his shorts against Quentin’s hip. He kisses Quentin’s ear, and huffs a laugh, close.

“You know  _ exactly _ how long it’s been.”

Quentin swallows. He doesn’t have a lot of memories from that night he’d essentially nuked his relationship with Alice. But he remembers a few things—more than Margo or Eliot ever admitted to. 

He remembers...being in Eliot’s lap, Eliot who was still fully clothed and clumsy, movements heavy, all but  _ clinging _ to Quentin as they kissed, hard...Margo and Eliot ganging up on him while he was flat on his back, wicked as he squirmed under them. Margo, riding his face and yowling while Eliot parked himself between his legs and— _ god _ , ate him out. And then, with Margo and Quentin spent, Eliot had laid back, satisfied with himself, and Quentin had all but faceplanted onto his dick, desperate to swallow him down and  _ show _ him that he—that he also deserved to feel good. After everything. 

He remembers Margo, sweaty and sated, laying on her side so she could kiss Eliot when it pleased her, and Eliot moaning openly and fisting his hand in Quentin’s hair as Quentin let him fuck into his mouth.

_ Aw _ , she’d cooed, clicking her tongue fondly.  _ He’s such a good boy. Can we keep him? _

“Oh,” Quentin breathes, mouth suddenly dry. “I didn’t think you remembered that.”

“I’m a liar, Quentin,” Eliot says. “Margo and I were also, like...saving face. We—felt bad. For what it did to you and Alice.”

“Yeah, that,” Quentin shakes his head. “Guess that makes sense.”

Eliot runs his fingers through Quentin’s hair, staying close. “Why do you ask?”

Quentin leans his head back to look at him, widening his eyes, going for innocent. “Take your pants off and find out.”

Luckily, Eliot does not need to be told again. He rolls off Quentin, onto his back, to pull his sleep shorts off. Finally freed, his dick smacks heavily onto his belly, long and thick and uncut, dusky pink on the pale skin of his stomach.

Quentin’s mouth waters. He had thought—maybe, that Eliot could just kneel over him while he got to work, but. No. He won’t have as much freedom of movement, and Quentin is fucking— _ starving _ for it.

He basically tackles Eliot the second his pants are off, while he’s still on his back, planting himself between his long legs and pinning his hips with both hands.

Eliot has a second to laugh and say “ _ Woah _ , there, okay—” before Quentin’s licking a slow, broad stripe up the underside of that  _ perfect _ fucking dick, all silk and musk and salt. It twitches gratifyingly up toward Quentin’s tongue, and Eliot gasps. 

Quentin looks up to see Eliot’s mouth open, eyes closed. He closes his lips over the head, and Eliot thanks him with a small, surprised “ _ Ah _ …”

Before Quentin can really get going, though, Eliot says, “Wait, hold on, I just—let me.” Quentin lets his hips go and Eliot scoots more toward the middle of the bed, and lays back against the pillows, half sitting up.

“Okay.” Eliot beckons him over. “We’re good, I just. Wanted to be able to see you.”

Quentin almost whines at that, and dives back in, on his knees and one elbow for more leverage. Feeling just a  _ bit _ on the vengeful side, he kisses the—apparently very sensitive—skin between Eliot’s hipbones, lightly scraping his teeth. Eliot shouts and his hips strain up, and Quentin pulls back, letting him chase it. 

Eliot actually laughs. “Oh my  _ God _ . Not fair.”

“Yeah, fucking frustrating, isn’t it?” Quentin grumbles, and then bites his hipbone and  _ sucks _ . 

Eliot gasps something that’s probably supposed to be words, and when Quentin rolls the tip of his tongue over the skin between his teeth, he groans like it’s been punched out of him.

Quentin pulls up to inspect his work, and the spot is red enough that he knows it’ll be purple in less than an hour. Eliot’s hands are twisted in the sheets, his chest blotchily flushed under the dark chest hair. He looks hazy about the eyes. 

“ _ God _ , Q,” Eliot breathes, and lets go of the sheets to pet his hair. Quentin leans into it, eyes closing, feeling himself heating up even more. Eliot’s thumb brushes softly over his forehead, and Quentin shivers. It’s so gentle, like Eliot’s been this whole time, that his whole body is just  _ lighting up _ with it, even at something so small.

He lowers himself again, feeling heady and slow, the sheer  _ wanting _ of it all actually preventing him from rushing. He wants to taste. He wants to savor every sound Eliot will make. 

Nuzzling Eliot’s dick and kissing slowly up the shaft, Quentin thinks he gets it, a little, why Eliot was taking his time with him earlier.

It’s fucking infuriating that he can’t take all of Eliot at once. He knows he can’t, he’s not drunk off his ass and loose with it, and he only just avoids having to pull off and cough as his gag reflex says  _ fuck you  _ after he gets overconfident. Instead, he works the base of Eliot’s cock with his hand, and vows to practice. 

Eliot's dick fills his mouth, thick as it is, and Quentin lets it drag over his tongue as he sinks down and pulls up. Eliot is panting and shaking, like he’s trying not to thrust up into him, which Quentin appreciates, even though he dearly wishes he could let him just...use his mouth. Take what he needs.

Without pulling off, he takes Eliot’s hand and guides it to his head. Eliot tenderly cups the nape of his neck, which is sweet, but not what Quentin was going for. Pointedly, he moves Eliot’s hand further up and guides his fingers into closing around his hair. 

“You sure?” Eliot whispers, brushing his thumb over Quentin's knuckle.

Quentin pulls off to get some air, and nods. “Please,” he slurs, lips feeling loose and swollen, jaw aching. “Just don’t, like, hold me still. I’m not—I need to get used to it again.”

“Okay,” Eliot says, and that’s all the guidance he needs. He adjusts from where Quentin has put his hand, and threads his fingers through his hair, flat against his scalp, and then forms a fist, gripping the hair at the back of his head that’s just starting to grow out, tight, until it stings.

Whatever Quentin had been about to do just—stops, and his whole brain whites out as his bones turn to jelly. 

“Q?”

“Hnnng,” Quentin replies.

Eliot starts to loosen his fist.

“S’good,” Quentin gets out, hastily gathering enough brain cells together to make sure Eliot  _ keeps doing the thing _ .

“Yeah?” His fingers tighten again.

“Mmmnn,” Quentin agrees, body buzzing, and tries to lower his head. Eliot lets him move, but keeps his hand good and tight, so Quentin gets his mouth back on him. Slack and blissed the fuck out, he just takes in the head of his dick, massaging with his tongue on the underside right above where the foreskin is pulled down, where he’s pretty sure…

Eliot practically sobs, his hips twitching up, and Quentin moans and sinks down in satisfaction. It creates a nice feedback loop for a minute, of Quentin’s moans making little vibrations along Eliot’s cock that in turn make Eliot gasp and twitch and his fingers flex in his hair and it’s just

It’s  _ so _ fucking good. 

He loves that he can make Eliot feel like this. 

Quentin feels like he’s glowing by the time Eliot pulls him gently off, except then there’s a bead of precome forming and Quentin just—has to lick it off. So he fights Eliot’s hand, just a little, and does so.

It’s worth it for the taste, for the way Eliot gasps “ _ Fuck _ ,” and then tightens his fingers, pulling him further up so that Quentin’s face is level with his sternum.

Quentin gets the picture, and follows him the rest of the way up to kiss him, open, letting Eliot taste and soothe his fucked-out mouth. Eliot lets his hair go and gently massages his sore scalp with his fingertips, which makes Quentin feel like he’s melting in a whole new way.

He lays on top of Eliot for a bit and lets himself be thoroughly kissed, cradled between his thighs, dick aching and trapped against Eliot’s stomach. 

“That was,” Eliot whispers, and his throat bobs as he swallows. “You just  _ go _ for it, huh? I forgot.”

“Mhm,” Quentin agrees, not feeling particularly verbal, let alone snarky, mostly just hot and needy and boneless. “I can...keep going. F’you want. Make you come.”

“Mm, no,” Eliot says, soft, fond. “No, that was—fucking amazing, but. I want you up here with me. Besides…”   
  
Eliot rolls them over until Quentin is on his back again, with Eliot straddling his hips. He nuzzles Quentin’s neck and presses his mouth where his pulse is rabbit-fast.

“I think you’ve been waiting long enough, hm?”

Quentin swallows, and takes a shuddering breath. “Yeah,” he says, and Eliot kisses his beestung lower lip. 

“What do you want?” Eliot asks. Which is a fucking—ludicrous question. He holds Quentin by the hip. “I’ll give it to you. Just say the word.”

“You,” Quentin says, impatient, reaching up to get him closer. 

“You’ve got me,” Eliot says, very quiet, like he hadn’t expected that answer. He lets Quentin pull him in, blanketing him with his body and planting gentle kisses over his face. “But apart from that. Do you—want me to fuck you, or…?”

Quentin actually laughs through the fog of arousal in his brain. “God, I wish. I’m not gonna last three seconds into getting prepped.”

“Next time?” Eliot asks.

“Next time,” Quentin agrees, and wraps his arms around Eliot’s back. “Just—stay here, maybe?”

Eliot swallows and nods, and Quentin closes his eyes and lets his head fall back against the pillows. His body is thrumming with need, but it’s  _ so much _ that he’s actually calm about it, muscles relaxed. He knows Eliot’s got him.

Sure enough, Eliot shifts above him, and Quentin gasps as Eliot’s dick brushes heavy against his own, and then Eliot takes them both in hand together.

“ _ Oh _ ,” Quentin sighs, hips arching into it, finally getting what he’s been aching for. 

Eliot’s tight fist, slick with precome and...probably magic(?), moves slowly over them both, and Quentin is whimpering shamelessly,  _ shaking _ with it, sweating, thrusting up helplessly, trying to get more.

“God, look at you,” Eliot breathes, sounding as wrecked as Quentin feels. 

Quentin wants to pull him in for a kiss, but he’s—too fucking tall, so he just scrabbles at his back as the feeling of  _ everything everywhere _ starts to overwhelm him.

“Fu-uck,” he cries, back arched, “Eliot,  _ please _ .”

“Alright, baby,” Eliot soothes, finally speeding up his hand. “Okay, I’ve got you, that’s it.”

Quentin comes with a strangled shout, and Eliot carries him through it until he’s a breathless heap on the mattress, shivering and sensitive.

He resurfaces to Eliot petting his hair back and whispering soothing nonsense to him, kissing his sweaty temple and his ear and his cheek. It’s so—nice, and sweet, that it takes Quentin a moment to remember that Eliot hadn’t come with him.

He looks down, and there’s Eliot’s cock, hard and heavy and dripping. Regaining some of his bearings, Quentin reaches down and strokes him, gentle at first to test the waters.

Eliot’s forehead drops to rest on Quentin’s, and he moans softly.

Quentin shifts around until he finds a good angle, so Eliot can fuck easily into his fist.

Which he does. 

It’s—beautiful to watch, now that the haze of Quentin’s own desperation is fading. Eliot’s fucking gorgeous when he’s letting someone make him feel good, lips parted and half smiling, eyelashes fluttering, flushed from ears to chest.

The sounds he makes are somehow even better. Appreciative, decadent, shameless.

He thinks he could stay here forever, bracketed by Eliot’s arms and legs, feeling his breath hot and uneven.

“Q,” Eliot gasps, the movement of his hips becoming more erratic.

“Yeah,” Quentin encourages, tightening his fist, pumping faster and as in time with Eliot’s hips as he can get. “Come on, El…”

Eliot buries his face in Quentin’s hair, and Quentin can feel him start to shake apart. “Q, ohhffuck, fuck, fuck,  _ ah _ —” 

He comes hot and hard on Quentin’s chest, breathing in sharp bursts.

Spent, Eliot collapses—not on top of him, which is what Quentin was hoping for, but next to him, sweaty and out of breath.

Quentin rolls over and scoots his body up to kiss him, just relishing in their closeness now, without all the urgency and uncertainty behind it. He feels Eliot’s hand come to rest against his neck. They stay like that for a while, drinking each other in, languid and sated.

At least—that’s what Quentin thought. When he opens his eyes, he realizes that what he had taken for sweat is actually tears on Eliot’s cheeks. 

“Oh, hey,” he says, soft, getting a hand back in Eliot’s hair, feeling an ache in his gut. “What’s… You okay?:

“I’m…” Eliot blinks and swallows. “I’m— _ so _ fucking okay. God, I’m  _ way  _ more than okay...” He pulls Quentin in, squeezing him. 

Quentin feels like maybe this isn’t the time to point out that there is definitely come drying on his chest, and instead just lets Eliot hold him.

Last night, Eliot had needed reassurance, safety, he’d needed permission to let loose what had wound him up so tight.

The Eliot holding him is thoroughly unwound, and having finally let that fear go, and in its place is something bigger, less manageable, but sweeter by far if he gives himself over to it.

Quentin knows the feeling. He kisses Eliot’s chest as he works through it, his own throat aching, and has his own private little epiphany. 

Eliot hadn’t shown his whole hand last night after all. But it's there now, all cards on the table, in the way Eliot’s nose presses against his hairline, in the way he’d worshipped Quentin’s body and joked and laughed and called him  _ baby Q _ . In how freely his relieved tears are falling.

Quentin figures—fuck it, why not, and tilts his head up to press a kiss under Eliot’s eye, stopping a tear in its tracks. 

Clearly not expecting that sort of gesture from him, Eliot freezes, eyes wide. 

_ Oh, you dumbass.  _ Quentin sighs and does the same for his other eye.

They’re going to have to talk. Sooner rather than later. At least now, Quentin knows what they’re going to talk about.

Who knows? Eliot might even bring it up first. 

He pulls back, and—ew, yeah, having Eliot come on him was, like, next-level hot, but the aftermath… He waves a hand, getting the worst of it with magic. 

Eliot smirks, not even remotely sheepish about it. 

Quentin rolls his eyes and throws his legs over the side of the bed, getting up in a lazy, heavy-limbed sort of way. “I’m gonna shower.” 

He gets to the door of the en suite bathroom, and then looks back at Eliot, who’s still laying on top of the covers in a gloriously naked heap, and just.  _ Looking _ at him. 

“You coming?”

Eliot, thankfully, does not need to be asked twice.

_ So hold my hand,  
I'll walk with you my dear _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hope you enjoyed!

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading, and thank goodness Q and El and all the rest belong to us now. Hopefully there will be more where this came from!


End file.
